L is for
by Blue-Inked Frost
Summary: One stygian night, the most sinister Crew in Down City savour...an evening in. Short, simple one shot, Blarre x Swayy. May also be appreciated by aficionados of alliteration.


** L IS FOR...  
**

**Warnings**: A little consensual kink, and also alliteration. Refrain from reading if you recognize it's not your preference!  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**A/N**: Swayy and Blarre have almost no personalities in canon, so naturally I take certain liberties with their characterisation here. Three lines used are borrowed, one from Skylii's poem about the Dragon Eyes, a second from Saki's short story _Tobermory_ (both available online), and a third I think might be Terry Pratchett's, originally concerning chickens and erotica. And though you probably already knew it, Laius is Oedipus' father. Written for Liliwen, who requested the pairing.

--

Dragon Eyes were meant to sneak, snigger and smirk as they surreptitiously stole through shadows for sundry secret sins. So spake Swayy.

She stared at the starless night over the windowsill, speculating seriously.

"Who wants cookies?" Cain interrupted her not-so-silent musings. He patted Rancydd's shoulders. "It's his first time trying vanilla almond with hint of raspberry!"

Swayy affected sophisticated scorn, but solipsistically helped herself anyway as Rancydd offered the tray to her. Her favourite.

"Mmm," Blarre said as she beatifically bit her biscuit. Swayy was surprised. Blarre's standard silence was seldomly shattered, nor her scowl unsettled; it was somewhat strange. Especially for a lowly lackey.

"_Munitions_ lackey," Blarre boasted, lapping the last of the crumbs from her fingers in a queer quicksilver manner, like a quasar quadrilling quaver-like in a quick quest to quell a quatrain.

Sway sighed. She had soliloquised aloud again. "What d'you think the other Crews do on Saturday nights?"

"Good cookies. So, anyone up for Old Dragon Maid?" Moordryd took out the pack of cards with a yawn. "I'm dealing this week. Cain, you owe me…" He reached into his pocket and counted. "Five little pieces of paper."

"Four. You ripped one when you were on laundry duty last week, remember?"

"_Five._" Moordryd spread out the cards on the table before him with a sharklike smile. "Challenge the champion and you will clamour for charity!"

"Thought you had training with your father tonight," Rancydd reminded him.

"No, he's working on something big," Moordryd mentioned. "I'm tired from the race anyway. Let's be _wild_ tonight and hit the Pixi Drag-Sticks!"

"But that much sugar could affect your weight as well as your attention," Cain cautioned.

"Never mind that!" Moordryd mandated. "Bring them out!"

"Ooh yeah, wild." Swayy sulkily sighed, comfortably after having eaten her share of the Pixi Drag-Sticks. She had just stopped playing with a single piece of paper remaining to Moordryd's five.

"You don't have to bleat about it, just because you're totally bombing out." Blarre brought her four pieces of paper out. "I'll bet, Paynn. Winner takes all."

"Bring it on!" Moordryd flashed his hand in front of her. Blarre bit her lip as she carefully chose a card, and the glorious game began.

"I win the medal!" Moordryd patted his pieces of paper, proud payment for his prudence in passing up Blarre's bold bids of bluff.

Blarre bestowed a black look upon him. "You _so_ cheated."

"We're hardcore, we always cheat in Old Dragon Maid." Moordryd mouthed: _Easy mark._

She bucked up and threw a blow at him; he feinted, fleeing formally in the frequently-used manner and veiling himself behind Vizz' valued blanket. "Nice try."

Blarre's bottom lip poked out at him as she pouted, part of her shoulder poking prettily from her partly-undone collar. "Whatever."

"Gimme back Blankie!" Vizz volunteered to the conversation, valiantly vanquishing Moordryd by vaulting violently over him.

Moordryd moaned, reclining on the rug. "Nearly midnight, and we don't have any dragons to steal. I vote we go to bed." He started sniggering. "Ha, I said _vote_! I said _vote_!"

Blarre looked beguilingly baffled.

Cain comforted him, clapping him on the edge of the collarbone. "I guess the sugar high hit," he clarified. "It's a real killer."

Rancydd rushed rapturously around the room. "Yay sugar!"

Blarre blinked. Swayy suspected her of eye-rolling under her lowered lids, though in versions of veracity she herself valued the sweet substance.

"Sugar high!" Moordryd made to try a tremulous twirl, but tripped over the table; Rancydd came down next to him, and commenced a curious clapping game.

"I wanna join!" Swayy slipped towards them, but was stopped by Blarre smoothly seizing her shoulder. _Sugar was so sweet!_

"Behave yourself," Blarre bid her. Swayy craved the coolly authoritative tone she had when she spoke.

"Sugar high!" Cain country-danced with Rancydd and Moordryd.

Swayy scowled. "Just don't let them sing…"

"Too late." Blarre boosted Swayy's efforts to block her ears by helpfully holding cushions to her head.

"We're Dragon Eyes, slipping through the night, stealing dragons to prepare to fight, Cruel, cold and insincere, Do what we say or you'll be out on your rear…"

"That is really bad poetry." Vizz' voice vexatedly vibrated.

"Don't tell Moordryd, he wrote it," Swayy supplied.

"Don't mess with Vizz' Blankie, don't laugh at Rancydd's hair eventhoughittotallymakeshimlookdeformed—ouchRancyddstopit—"

"It's a very cool Blankie completely appropriate for the cyber-advanced surveillance expert!"

"Don't mock Moordryd Paynn, or you'll have less limbs to spare!"

"Hah, sure, don't mock the crazy albino with a Laius complex—"

"Just because I doodled Mr and Mr Paynn once didn't mean I meant—"

"And feast on Cain's cookies, or for your tongue you'll go lookies—"

"Eww. We'd _cut_ out someone's _tongue_?"

"Well, we said it above. Cruel, cold and insincere, 'member?"

"Yeah, but cutting out _tongues_. That's just plain _wrong_."

"Don't 'splode up Blarre, else Swayy will swear, you'll clean disrupter fumes from your hair—"

"ScreamingscalesfromscalingAbandonn—"

"That is _dreadful_ language!" Cain flourished his finger in front of her face. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"Hello? You swear, Cain. Every _other_ Crew swears!"

"That's only when we're out there! We don't need to hear it in our comfortable family atmosphere!"

"He's still on the happy sugar high." Moordryd merrily nestled his head on Cain's shoulder. "Don't spoil it!"

"—and join with us now and come to our lair!"

Vizz brought out his binocs with the built-in camera. "Everybody smile!"

He speedily snatched Swayy and Blarre from the sofa, almost simultaneously as the camera snatched the snap: Moordryd still with a spare Pixi Drag-Stick in his hand and his hand forming gag-claws above Cain's head, Rancydd posing proudly with a cookie, Vizz grinning gleefully next to Blarre and Swayy.

Swayy smiled, too tardily, beholding Blarre's brilliant beam in the bright light from the camera bulb. Her hand clenched almost convulsively in Blarre's in chosen camaraderie.

"One last Pixi Drag-stick before bed," Moordryd masterfully urged. "We've had one wild party, guys, but I gotta train tomorrow…"

"It's _majorly_ late for a weekend night," Cain continued. "We've got to get up before sunset, after all—late to bed, late to rise, makes an Eye wealthy, cunning and wise!"

"And we've got dragons to stalk," Swayy smugly stated.

"Oh yeah, stealing dragons." Rancydd raucously roared in laughter. "We're so _wild_!"

The three country-dancers and Vizz cleared out of the room, continuing to carol their chorus as they continued, stranding Swayy with Blarre.

"We're not _that_ wild," she wantonly went on, when the others were no longer there. "People think we have orgies. _Orgies_! With drink and drugs and things."

"Well, considering how Cain dresses…" Blarre brazenly observed, and Swayy considered Blarre's own close-fitting costume for a moment.

"He's just sensitive to heat after that incident with Pyrrah's fireball gear." Swayy shrugged. "I'm intelligence officer, we're supposed to be _way_ badly behaved! Only, you know, it _is_ illegal and everything seeing as we're under twenty-one…"

"Just because you're methodical and virtuous in private, you don't necessarily want everyone to know it. I don't really mind. How would we get drinks anyway?" Blarre bore the ban bravely.

"I think you have to, you know, say things. Like, I've heard Pyrrah has a still down in the Fire Caves…"

Both paused to ponder this.

"I still don't get how we'd _ask_ her, though. You can't just go up to someone and say, hey, we want illegal drinks for underage people."

"I don't think you do," Swayy supposed. "I guess there's a secret code. I want drugs and drink and debauchery. But we're underage and addicted to sugar and cookies and country dancing, and I don't _get_ how!"

"Or sugar cookies. My favourite!" Blarre bobbed her head (and her bosom, as the sofa cushions bounced beneath her) happily.

Swayy supplied her a sceptical stare.

"All right. I guess orgies might be fun too."

A surprised Swayy's shout was stifled as Blarre's bountiful body began to bundle itself around her. A licentious shiver laved its way up her spine, and she was silenced as her comrade kissed her kindly.

Swayy slipped further down on the sofa and slid into a more snug position. Sometimes Blarre's silences were sublime more than silly, and sent superb satisfaction.

Blarre blazed as she bewitchingly burned beguiling brands against Swayy's skin, scattering silken sheen from her lipgloss.

"You should remove that silly suit," Swayy suggested. Blarre displayed a downright démodé choice of clothing at times.

"Did I tell you I've always hated your jacket? But your boots are kind of nice," Blarre added as an afterthought. She tangled her fingers through Swayy's tousled tendrils of hair. "You can leave them on."

"I'm not completely sure about this," Swayy let slip, testing the twisted twine that temporarily tied her to the table. "I'm supposed to be the information officer. But it seems like I wasn't so well informed about this sort of thing…"

Blarre became visible once again, flourishing a (new; Swayy had bought it last week and she knew the old one hadn't worn out yet) feather duster.

"Safeword is raspberry."

And arousingly arching animatedly, the arc of their adjoining anatomies appeared arrestingly attractive.

The strings now severed from the side of the upper table legs, Swayy slipped one leg free as well, and shoved Blarre over in a swift though far from simple motion.

This was lust, libidiousness, longing; she liked her friend a lot, though she would not like to say where this would lead. She lay locked with Blarre, and in lured and luxuriating lunacy learned she liked her too much for the label.

"Feather duster?" she asked gallantly as they ground gamely against each other.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to use the whole featherered crow-drag. That's just perverted," Blarre said in a bell-like voice, as baroquely beautiful as basilicas in byzantine byways or bewitchingly basted brocade.

"Ah. I see." She committed herself to cajoling Blarre to conduct herself in candid and clear speech in future, for her voice was quite marvellously melodious. "You know, this wasn't exactly in my sex-ed course…"

"I read _a lot_," Blarre boasted. "So much for being intelligence officer—"

"Intelligent enough to note the security eye just above us."

She was satisfied to see Blarre's blue-black eyes widen as she stared up.

"…So whom do we have to kill?"

"Nobody," Swayy said securely. "So much for being intelligence officer. The camera feed gets conveyed to my room. And from there, we can show the stablebrats what they're missing!" She laughed, wildly and wickedly.

Blarre's bold eyes glittered as she black-heartedly bedeviled Swayy to bring her to the brink of begging for more. "Then let's make this one a keeper."

This salacious sinfulness was surpassingly suitable as a secret sybaritic assignation for the scariest Crew in society, Swayy silently soliloquised. She smirked, and Blarre joined her in a snigger of superlative success.

And they alliterated animatedly along.

_fin_


End file.
